


Solidarity and Good Liquor

by captorvatiing



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Past Character Death, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:13:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captorvatiing/pseuds/captorvatiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alpha Rose and the Dolorosa meet in the dream bubbles and commiserate over the people they lost.  Featuring one non-graphic recollection of an Imperial Execution, discussion of unconventional family dynamics and one cameo from a paranoid space racist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solidarity and Good Liquor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [banbanabas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banbanabas/gifts).



Sometimes we do things that we know are going to make us sad.

The smell of burning clogs your throat so you pull a scarf from your sylladex and tie it over your nose and mouth. You could just leave, but when you press your hand flat against the stone pillar it’s still warm and you don’t want to, not just yet. The distant sound of screaming nags at the back of your head and you see it, clear as day. To your right, Meulin, cursing and throwing her weight against the two trolls holding her, but they are bigger than she is and one of them hauls her back by a fistfull of hair, forcing her face up. Forcing her to look ahead. To your left Mituna stands so placid you might think he was dead if it wasn’t for the fitful rise and fall of his chest and the occasional twitch of his fingers. His eyes are shrunken in his face, ringed with dark bruises, and the highblood holding him has his chin cradled in her hand. You remember Her Imperious Condescension laughing. She did not have eyes for you but you looked at her, her face illuminated by lights set to make her look larger than life. You entertained thoughts then that make you sick to think now. 

Back then, you had refused to watch. Even when the troll stood behind you wrenched your face forwards by the horn you stubbornly closed your eyes. You did not want to see your son in pain and you refused to give them the satisfaction. Now, you stare at the pillar and it remains unchanged, unforgiving grey and warmed only by the setting of the sun. Your hand slides down the rough worn stone into the dust and you gasp for air. 

A delicate hand settles on your back and you spin round to face the intruder with a furious snarl, raising up from your knees to your haunches as you twist. The intruder steps back and raises a needle in your direction but you can hear the heavy thumping of her heart, she is not as unwavered by your reaction as she would like to be. You lean back, forcing the snarl off your face and try to examine her more neutrally. It’s a woman with strangely saturated skin and an unnerving absence of horns. She’s wearing a graceful floor length dress which is uncannily similar in cut to yours. Something puzzling flickers across her face and then she shoots you a cool smirk and lowers her weapon halfway.

“Well,” she says. “One of us is going to have to change.” 

You laugh. “I’m afraid,” you say, when you’ve gathered your composure. “I haven’t a stitch else to wear.”

“Oh that’s quite alright.” She counters, a wicked glint in her eye.

You decide you might like this woman. You introduce yourselves, find that you are Rose and Rosa and you laugh again. She is something she calls a hue-man from the planet Earth. She knows about trolls, and Alternia to an extent, but she says so with venom dripping from her words and you establish that her planet was colonised by your Empress. You assure her that you hate the Empress too, and despite her distrust she seems to relax a little. 

“I had imagined she would be awful to her own people but I suppose it’s good to have it confirmed.” She says, taking a seat next to you on the steps of the jut. “Or at least, satisfying for my own personal curiosity rather than good. I can’t imagine it was good for you in any sense.”

“She killed my son.” You say.

Rose goes quiet. You don’t know her but it strikes you as an unusual silence. If this alien knows anything about trolls, and she says she does, she would know that “son” is not a word commonly used in Alternian but she doesn’t question it. You get the impression that she knows. A lusus always knows. Her eyes slowly drift to the jut you’re sitting under and her nostrils flare ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry.” She says finally. 

You smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes and when you shake your head at her she reaches a hand out to touch your arm. 

“Tell me about him.” She says. Her fingers are as warm as his against your elbow. 

You hesitate for what feels like a long time. You haven’t really spoken to anyone about him since before he died. No one has been around who would understand. The slaves on the Orphaner’s ship made a habit of not prying into each other’s business, which you were grateful for. They were good people and each of them had their own baggage without your story. Shortly after you first died you’d run into a boy who looked almost exactly like him, but slimmer and prickly around the edges. He’d been sympathetic enough to ask but you didn’t have the heart to burden him with your troubles either. You look at the painted nails sitting carefully on your arm and decide that you’re ready. 

“He had the most beautiful hands.” You say. “When he first pupated his hands were no bigger than my palm and they were perfect. He’d wrap all his chubby little fingers around two of mine and cling. They got broader of course, grew into thick, flat things with short calloused fingers, workers hands. But he would still hold on, just two fingers. He was perfect.” You look at your palm and laugh, blinking back fresh tears. “...Though I think I might be just a little biased in that respect.” She makes a little understanding noise in the back of her throat and tilts her head for you to continue. “He talked about such wonderful things. I knew _why_ they hated him of course but if they’d have just listened to him, gotten to know him, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt him.” You remember Mituna’s laugh and the way that Meulin orbited him like a comet on a collision course and you smile at your lap. “A heartbreaker.” 

Rose turns out to be the perfect audience. She smiles and laughs when you tell jokes, even the dark ones (especially the dark ones), makes encouraging noises in all the right places and goes suitably quiet when your voice turns down. She is an excellent listener and so you give her stories to listen to. You talk about Kankri when he was alive. You tell her about the movement, how he openly resisted the Empress’ brutality with compassion and inspired others to do the same wherever he went. You tell her about his sweet tooth, and how it always drove you bonkers when he managed to fray the edges of his gloves faster than you could mend them. You talk for much longer than you expect to and by the time you falter the bubble is getting light. 

Your eyes dart between the glowing horizon and your companion with some concern and to your surprise she smiles.

“It’s quite alright,” she says. “It’s not your sun.” You squint, and sure enough instead of the harsh red glow of dust kicked up on the desert horizon you can see something bright white and dusted with pink. “I’m afraid I’ve been stalling while our refreshments arrived.” 

The sky shimmers and warps like soap on water as the two bubbles merge, tall green trees coated with ice encroaching on the desert as though it wasn’t there. Through them, along a long gravel drive, looms a large white building. Rose stands up and brushes her hands over her thighs.

“Join me for a drink.” She says, holding out a hand.

You take it and stand, before pulling the shoulders of your dress straight. “That sounds delightful.” 

As you approach the strange white hive you can hear faint music through the open window. You glance to Rose who just sighs and pushes the door open. She gestures for you to follow and starts making her way through the open plan recreation block to the back of the hive where a young man with dark glasses and hair as shockingly white as hers is watching you from behind the nutrition block counter. You give a delicate wave of your fingers and he looks away. 

“David, darling,” Rose calls ahead as she sweeps towards him, switching off his music on the way. “Time for you to go.” 

You politely feign disinterest as he protests your presence in a voice that you’re fairly sure he means to be a whisper. 

“You sure about that Rosie? I mean, I’m all for cultural exchange but-” She primly pinches his lips shut with a thumb and forefinger but that doesn’t stop him. “Mmf mm mff rm.” 

She paps him primly on the mouth and you look the other way. “Out.” She says. “Paranoia is not a good colour on you.”

“But-” 

“Ms. Rosa would you please reassure my brother that you are in fact a reasonable troll, who has no intention to make attempts at murdering me?” 

“No earnest attempts at least.” You say, and delight in the way Rose’s painted lips twist up at the corners. 

The joke falls flat on your gentleman friend though, and he scowls and whispers something in your host’s ear. She whispers back and gives him the kind of look that melts resolve like a hot knife through churned dairy emulsion. 

“That is _not_ the same!” He protests, shoving his hands deep in his jean pockets.

“You’re right! This situation is considerably less exciting, now please get the fuck out of my house.” She swats him on the glutes and he scowls like chastised wriggler as he reluctantly skirts around you to leave. 

“I do apologise.” Rose says, when the door clicks shut behind him. “He doesn’t trust trolls.”

“What a coincidence, neither do I.” 

She laughs and leads you through to the nutrition block where she sets about pouring you a drink. “You’ve met far more to make an opinion of though, I’m afraid he’s basing all of his assumptions on fish hitler herself. Hardly a fair representative.” 

“The Empress?”

“Mm.” She slides a full glass towards you and takes a sip from hers. “In his defense he lost as much to her as we did.”

“A child?”

“Brother, not parental, or should I say a lusii-pupa relationship, but close enough.”

“And you-?”

“Daughter.” Her eyes drop to her drink. “Roxy.”

You turn your own glass between your fingers. Sorry, you know, seems weak coming from strangers - a platitude handed out to make the speaker feel better about themselves more than anything else - so you keep it to yourself. Instead you take a slow sip from your drink and return the favour she granted you.

“What was she like?” 

To your surprise she laughs. “I don’t know!” 

She tells you how she knew that her daughter was coming, but never lived long enough to meet her. How, from what her gift of foresight allowed her to gather, Roxy would grow up to be a sweet, loving, intelligent young woman… without her. At some point in the story she rather dramatically notices that her glass is empty and gets up to busy herself with a fresh bottle. She pours herself another generous glass as her story abruptly ends in a cavalier account of her death.

“Anyway!” She says, pushing herself up onto the counter and leaning towards you. “I would never presume to take comfort in your misfortune but there is some ah,” She puckers her lips, takes a sip from her drink. “Something to be said for solidarity and good liquor.” 

“To solidarity and good liquor.” You say, raising your glass. She clinks hers against it and laughs.


End file.
